


Ophelia

by lazyroughdrafts



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F, Orphan Black AU, This is not one of those times, scene of a non-explicit nature, sometimes it is, sometimes sex isn't about sex, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 12:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3250244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazyroughdrafts/pseuds/lazyroughdrafts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helena used to see her everywhere for years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ophelia

**Author's Note:**

> 'Ophelia'
> 
> I always,/I always,  
> I always get this way when,  
> You tell me,  
> I'm losing,/I'm losing, everything.  
> I always,/I always,/I always get this way when.  
> I can't say,/I can't say,  
> I can't say anything.  
> [...]  
> I am invisible  
> I run in streams by your door  
> You want to follow me  
> But I am sleeping  
> I am  
> Gone
> 
> [...]
> 
> -Lena Fayre

_Myka thinks of her as all the best bits. Even as another woman's wife lays bare against her and grows into a quietude that allows the telling of stories without fresh unravelings, without the immediacy of emotion that was want to accompany such recollections. She listens with a solemnity fitting to the impartation of sacred ritual._ _She memorises every detail, absorbs every nuance of expression that transforms that face as she speaks_ _of their life together. She knows now that the woman was a ready smile and easy laughter, not prickly to the touch, nor receding into the background of a private room. She was all bright colours. She thinks of her as the better part of her. The best part even.  
_

.............

 

She could not unhear the terrible refrain _I buried her, I buried her, I buried her_ even as the woman was pressing into her, barreling into her with all the force generated by skinless grief and churning rage. Even as fingers gripped at her leather jacket. Slipping first at the shoulders and gripping even more fiercely to remove the offensive layer. Brutally tugging down her arms and flinging it aside and then wordlessly but just as furiously lifting the hem of her top, carelessly yanking it over her head, almost smothering her in the process as the neckline caught under her chin.

 

And she allowed it. Had been allowing this assault on her body to continue since that first painful kiss, the one even now continuing to blossom violets in her mouth. She had given her consent when she leaned into the bruising momentum of that mouth. And there they were in her sparsely furnished studio with her back pressed against the wall, exposed brick rubbing through what was left to her of her garments.

  
  
The woman had seemed satisfied in part only when she was down to her white vest top and briefs. And had then proceeded to remove her own with as much impatience if not actual violence. Standing stitchless but for a rather ordinary gold locket. Unremarkable but for the pleasing swirl of the monogram adorning it. But now with her back pressing into, being pressed into the rough textures behind her, with her back scraping up against it as the ghosting crescent moon of a knee found its way between her legs. It was suddenly not enough again as frenzied fingers went to bare skin entirely pausing only when they had clawed at the waistband of her plain briefs taking some skin with them as they made their way to the floor. And then they were animated again with the same furious intent as they found without apology. And moved and moved and moved. Even as her green eyes stayed fixed on the rise and fall of that almost opalescing lunar surface. Pale skin in the trick of light. Those green eyes, flitting in and out of shadow. It would be some time before those fingers found pause again, some time again before they stopped moving with frenetic energy. When they were collapsed on the floor. Her back red, red, raw and burning. But obscured in the indecisive half-light of daybreak and hidden against the brick it rivaled for colour now. And the almost alien body of paleness straddling her hips and nestled in her neck, taking in the scent of her until her skin was wet and warm again but this time from tears. Tears pooling at her clavicle and sliding down her sternum, her breast, her firm belly in elaborate rivulets.

 

  
And she had given her consent to all this because of the picture in that locket. But when she says the name against her neck, the name of the dead woman in the locket, whose face her mirror image, she does not consent. When she shifts to look into her green eyes with eyes revealing the chasm, when she gently sets soft palms against her cheeks, their softness an alien presence against her skin. Skin that will soon slowly flower in waking violets with the toil of those same hands. Then, then she does not consent to hear the staggered lament from lips that have bruised hers, from reddened kiss-swollen lips chanting _Ophelia, Ophelia, Ophelia_.

 

"I'm not her. I'm not her Helena." She shakes her head more vehemently into those smooth uncalloused hands. Strange hands so ready to bruise, more ready still to soothe. Strange hands on her skin. And yet not so strange. What is the difference anyway between their skin, between her and her own face. These hands now. These hands, these fingers that were made for the touch and tremble. These ghostly fingers that can only touch the living. "Say it. Say my name." She insists, her voice alien in her ears with its insistence. And yet even as guilt consumes her, her quivering voice makes no apology for her name.

 

But she is met with only silence and black eyes in abyss. Silence and then a small, dull whimper, falling as a thud too dense with gravity against her chest. Eyes in excavation of her own, soft hands examining her face. She grabs her slim wrists, suddenly less iron than reed, breakable wrists and shakes her head into them before dropping them away from her face. "Ophelia is dead." She says the words distinctly but not harshly. She says the words through her own tears at this grieving wife. _This widow of one year_. Because she in turn has been orphaned again. And now with the death of this last sister, her mirror image, she is truly alone. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry Helena. But Ophelia is gone. And there is only me. There is only me left." 

  
  
"Only you?" She says uncomprehending as if those words together are devoid of meaning. As those soft hands find her face again unbidden.

"I buried Ophelia." And it is a lament now without refrain. The carefulness of those fingers tracing her jaw, cupping her face is more jarring than any open-handed slap. "I thought I was going mad." Her voice breaks pitifully as shoulders rise and fall and her body strains to find reserves as she weeps, tapered fingers swiping at her nose and cheeks, "God I thought I was seeing her everywhere. I thought I'd lost my bloody mind."

  
"I'm sorry. I am so sorry." Hands on either side her head coax her closer as she yields and allows her forehead to be kissed. "I wish they'd found me first. I wish it had been me."

  
  
"What? No Myka. No." She says decisively. Shaking her head with rebuttal-ending decision. "No."

  
  
"You cannot imagine what it was to see her face again." She runs fingers through her hair, apologetic in needless shame. "It was so very like before. Before I moved to New York, before we met. I used to see her all the time around Dalston. All the time. Often I imagined our eyes would linger on each other in recognition. As if she felt the same force of attraction.  I had a notion it was destiny." She looks away then, rolls her eyes and swipes her running nose before looking back into the earnest gaze that cannot tear itself away from her. She thumbs Myka's lips, dragging her knuckles slowly across her cheek, looking down into eyes that are more haunted even than hers, even more guilty. But bright. But so bright. She whispers into her mouth as she falls forward. "But it was always you, wasn't it? All those years. I'd fallen in love with the idea of a woman. All riotous curly hair and crooked shy smiles. But it was you. You the entire time." She licks her lips and wipes at her face with the back of her left hand. Shaking her head in angry frustration. "I did love her. I did. I loved her. So very much. But it was the idea of you. And I cannot--cannot make sense of this. Of any of this. How I loved her so much. So much because I had craved _you_ for years. You, Myka."

 

And Myka reaches out to her. Circles her fingers around that almost tiny wrist and draws her into her. Holds her close and speaks into her hair, “I'm sorry it was me. I used to see you all the time. Everywhere. And I never could gather the nerve to make an excuse to speak to you. But I’m glad you met her, that you had each other. I wish I could have known her too. I am sorry Helena. I am. So sorry.”  She apologises into her hair even as Helena shakes her head over and over again _no darling no_. Even as she is exhausted from crying, is exhausted of tears themselves.

 

And she is. She is very sorry. She grows more sorry the more she hears of this happy, vibrant uncomplicated woman. A woman who grew up with a family who adored her, a woman so full of life and at ease with life. This woman who was her mirror image, but all the best bits. All the best bits gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: The descriptions of Helena’s skin is bugging me. Anxiety of Influence. If I have unintentionally absorbed your words tell me and I will credit you or remove them.


End file.
